A Good Shot
by fantasydancer
Summary: This was written as I school assignment. It's my take on the ending of the short story "The Sniper" by Liam O'Flaherty. Here's the link to the actual story: ml


_**A/N: This was written as I school assignment. It's my take on the ending of the short story "The Sniper" by Liam O'Flaherty. Here's the link to the actual story: . **_

* * *

_Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother's face._

* * *

His gaze was riveted to the sight. Blood trickled from the side of his brother's mouth, and more had started to seep from the bullet wound on his chest. The sniper couldn't seem to move, and the silence of the June night seemed to close in around him until he thought he needed to scream, to yell, anything to break this deafening silence. But he didn't.

He had killed his own little brother.

His arm throbbed painfully, and he remembered his earlier thoughts about how good a shot the other sniper had been. Nostalgia washed over him, and though he tried to shake it off and put it down to little food, the heat, and loss of blood, it kept nagging at him.

_"__And this is how you pull the trigger. Understand?" _

_Tom, the younger brother at fourteen nodded. _

_ "__Alright." Liam, who was currently sixteen, gave a smile and handed him the small gun which had been their father's. He pointed to the fence about one hundred meters out where he had lined up old chipped glass bottles on top. "Try it for yourself."_

_Tom grinned, cocking the gun, aiming it like Liam had shown him, and then pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed over the bottles, and a bit to the right. Seeing the disappointed look on his younger brother's face Liam wrapped an arm around his shoulder and affectionately ruffled his hair. "Don't worry about it. It was a good shot. And you'll get plenty better."_

The sniper noticed how heavy his breathing had become. _Please, Lord, let it be an awful dream._ In hopes of this, the sniper pinched his arm, and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the pain of the pinch, and let his eyes fly open. His little brother's crumpled form was watery, and he was finding it harder to breath as silent sobs of grief choked him. He slowly lowered his head to his brother's chest whispering wordless apologies, intermingled with curses.

_ "__Keep in touch!" Liam called as he watched his younger brother head off to join his own regiment._

_Tom turned and rolled his eyes. "You worry too much. I'll be fine. You were, when you first joined."_

_Liam smiled. "That doesn't mean you don't give me reason to worry, little brother." _

_Tom returned his brother's smile, glad that after the initial argument when Tom had declared he wanted to join the infantry, Liam had backed him, even when their parents thought he should stay home. They already had one son in the army, and they didn't want to risk another. _

Unconsciously, the sniper's hand reached down to his pocket where the flask of whiskey lay empty. He came back to the present, and moved back so that he was sitting on his heels. The split in the army had taken place only a few months after his brother joined, and both had remained oblivious to the other's fate.

The sniper swiped a hand over his eyes. He glanced down the street, but there was not a single movement. No sign of anyone. He glanced back at the still and broken form behind him, and then to the sky. Dawn would arrive in a few hours. Time to get moving. He still needed to report to his company commander after all.

The sniper stood slowly. Again he cursed the war, and his commander, and his parents, and his brother, and most of all…himself. Thinking back on it, the sniper wished he'd have backed his parents. His brother was always more likely to have gone with what he said before something their parents said.

"I'm sorry." The sniper whispered. Tears still fell from his eyes, but there was nothing to be done now, except live with the guilt. Forever.

_ "__I'll always make sure no one ever hurts you." Liam assured his six year old brother._

_ "__Promise?"_

_Liam smiled. "Promise."_

When the sniper returned to base he immediately reported, his voice and face devoid of emotion. Cold and blank. The perfect soldier. When his commander sent him off for rest and to get his arm looked at the sniper responded in perfect turn, saluting and heading off to the tents. With a quick stop to the infirmary to pick up some more dressings, he made his way back to the barracks to rewrap the wound. He wouldn't remove the bullet. It was a good shot after all.


End file.
